


To Be a Better Man

by Severina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Community: lands_of_magic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 22:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6628729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Belle inadvertently releases a genie from a magic lamp at the shop, Rumplestiltskin must track him down before he wreaks havoc on an unsuspecting Regina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be a Better Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's lands_of_magic for the 'magic' prompt.
> 
> * * *

I

Harold is sleeping when his pile of cushions suddenly slides alarmingly to the left. He opens one eye grumpily – being shifted about is not all that uncommon, after all, but he does hate to have his beauty rest interrupted – when his body begins to tingle. The tingle rapidly becomes a prickle beneath his skin, and he scrambles to push himself to his knees. His heart pounds; his palms quickly become slick with perspiration.

Can it be? Dare he think it? After all this time, is someone actually polishing his lamp?

He feels the power building, building, building… and holds his breath. Oh please let it someone of wealth and power! Please let it be someone worthy of his gifts! He imagines being set up in plush apartments in a sultan's palace. Or perhaps strolling through sun-kissed gardens while an emperor has his ear. Oh, dining on smoked meats served on shining trays by scantily clad serving girls and-- 

He is sucked out of the lamp in a great whoosh of sparkles and light. He opens his eyes to the clatter of his lovely lamp hitting the floor and a woman of great beauty stumbling away from the sight of his sudden apparition. As his eyes adjust – those sparkles are really quite jarring – he notes the crowded shelves, the array of trinkets, the dim and gloomy interior.

Oh, _lovely_. Not a king, not even a duke. His liberator is a lowly shop-girl.

She blinks wide blue eyes at him, holding onto the countertop behind her to keep her balance. "Are… are you a—"

"Genie? Yes." Shop-girl or no, he gives a low bow that would fit in satisfactorily at any court in the land. "Harold is my name. And it appears that I am at your service."

"Belle Gold," the woman answers, holding out her skirt as she sketches him a curtsey. Her scandalously short skirt, if he does say so himself. "I must say, you're not how I imagined a genie would… look."

Harold glances down at his attire. Granted, his long skinny legs make the harem pants end at mid-thigh instead of the usual mid-calf and his bony knees do nothing to improve the look, but the purple goes well with his complexion. And the vest covers his scrawny chest nicely, even if he is so pale he seems to be glowing. He returns the shopkeeper's skeptical look with a frown of his own.

"Not every genie is an Agrabahian, you know," he says testily. "One of the Agrabi? Agrabatian?" He waves a hand in the air in frustration. "We're not all from Agrabah!"

"Of course," Belle says. She seems to have gotten her bearings now; steps forward with her head cocked curiously. "Are you supposed to grant me three wishes?"

"Everyone always wants to jump _straight_ to the wishes!" He knows he should keep his mouth shut – he _is_ grateful that she freed him from his lamp, because despite how many silk cushions are inside he can never get quite comfortable in that thing, he's just too gangly – but this constant fixation on wishes is just so infuriating! "Never a single thought to how Harold feels! Never an offer of a cup of tea, or a conversation about the weather! Just wishes wishes wishes!"

"My apologies," Belle says. And she does look sincerely contrite, poor thing. He should really learn to control his temper. She lifts a hand, gestures toward a scrap of fabric hanging in a doorway behind her. "I can put the kettle on if you—"

"No," he says with a sigh. "Best we just get on with it. You probably have floors you need to mop or shelves you have to dust before your employer comes back. I don't want to be held responsible when he beats you with a stick for not performing your duties."

Belle grins, as though the prospect of a swift thrashing is one of amusement. Strange girl.

"My husband is the proprietor," she tells him, "so you needn't worry about that. Though I wouldn't put up with such a thing from anyone. And there's really nothing to 'get on' with, either. I don't want any wishes."

"Of course you do."

"No." Belle lifts her shoulders in a delicate shrug. "I really can't think of anything."

Harold narrows his eyes. "Is this a test? An assessment of my abilities?" He spins in a quick circle, but can spot nothing in the room besides an overwhelming number of bits and bobbles. But Randolf is tricky, and everyone _says_ he can turn himself invisible at will. "Is my supervisor here? Am I being watched?"

He jerks when Belle's slender fingers touch his arm. "There's no one here but you and I," she says with a laugh. "I'm simply… happy with my life. I have a husband who loves me, a job in the library that I adore, good friends. I don't need wishes to improve my life. It's perfect already."

"But..." Harold slumps back against the counter. "But everyone wants wishes!"

"Not I," Belle insists. 

No wishes! In all his long years he has never encountered a living soul who wasn't eager to take advantage of his wish-giving capabilities. Why, most people jumped at the chance to have their greatest desires come true. If he is not to give out wishes, then what is he to do? What is the meaning of his existence? _Does_ he even exist?

She seems to notice his existential crisis, because her hand once again reaches to brush against his arm. "I'm sorry," she says. For a moment her frown matches his own, then she brightens. "Perhaps I could allow you to use my wishes! Or I could give them to someone else who needs them!"

"Impossible. That's not allowed. It's in the rules." He calls forth the scroll to hand, scans quickly through it to find the relevant portion. "It's right here, you see. Section Three, Sub-Section B, Paragraph Sixteen: _All wishes must remain the property of the wishee. Wishes may not be sold, transferred, traded, gifted or otherwise assigned to any other party, whether living, dead or undead._ " He waves a hand and lets the scroll disappear back to wherever it goes when he doesn't need it.

The lovely Belle blanches considerably. "Undead?"

"Demons, minions of the underworld, that sort of thing," Harold explains. "It's rare that they can ever get access to a lamp, but it's been known to happen. The things they wish for! My cousin Marvin had stories that would fry your hair!"

Belle's hand drifts unconsciously to her mane of chestnut curls. 

"You also cannot wish for more wishes, though that would be a handy little loophole if you could," Harold continues. He waggles a finger at her. "And you can't use your wishes to induce me to murder your arch-nemesis!"

Belle gasps. "I would never!"

"Hmmm," Harold says noncommittally. He eyes her up and down, from the tips of her impractically high-heeled shoes – how does she walk on those things without breaking an ankle? – to her head of luxurious hair. He must admit she doesn't _look_ the type, but appearances can be deceiving. The Queen, Regina, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and her mind had been as devious as a nest of gasparian rattlers.

"And besides," Belle says stubbornly, "I already said I don't want any wishes."

"Yes. There is that," Harold answers, once again slouching back against the counter. He lifts a brow. "Perhaps you could… think about it?"

She looks as though she's going to refuse, and his shoulders involuntarily slump. How must her husband put up with such an obstinate woman? But again she perceives his disappointment, and nods. "Of course. I'll think about it. But," she adds quickly, "I'm not making any promises."

Harold straightens. She'll think about it! And once she's had some time, she'll realize that there are indeed things that she desires. A brooch of diamonds for her hair, perchance, or a locket of gold to rest in the hollow of her throat. Or maybe an outfit that covers more of her body that the scraps of cloth she's currently wearing. Her husband must be either very poor or very broadminded to allow her to go about half-clothed as she is.

"In the meantime," Belle says, bringing his mind back to more practical matters than the shapely length of leg she's showing, "what will you do?"

"I will stroll through your town and speak to the merchants," Harold decides on the spur of the moment. "And cudgel a cup of tea from one with a friendly face and kind disposition. Do you know how long it's been since I've had a good cup of tea?"

"I do not," Belle says. In actuality, neither does Harold. Time gets rather muddy when you're living in a lamp. "How long have you been stuck in there, anyway? And who put you there?"

Harold shudders. He most certainly does not want to think of those times. "A long story."

Belle crosses her arms at her chest. "We seem to have nothing but time." 

Harold shakes his head, pushes himself up from the counter. "I have a town to explore," he says expansively, twirling a hand near his head. He quickly thrusts it down when he realizes he's doing an unconscious imitation of… no, he won't think of that. He heads for the doorway instead, calling back over his shoulder, "And you must think about your wishes!"

"Oh! Before you go, I should explain about Storybrooke—"

Harold pauses with one hand on the doorknob. "My dear, I have travelled extensively throughout the Enchanted Forest and all points beyond. I have been to the hidden jungles of Rethraren, the highest peak of the Crestdown Mountains, and the murky depths of the Lake of Shadows. I'm sure that I can handle this 'Storybrooke' of yours." 

He steps confidently out into the street. It is the noise that assails him first, a cacophony of jangling notes and blasts of horns that can only be the instruments of Hades himself. Then the smells, thick dank scents that seem to coat his very tongue. He takes a hesitant step forward, and then stares when a large metallic conveyance swerves in front of him, glowing eyes almost pinning him in place before he manages to rouse himself and jump back out of its way.

He dives for the shop door, runs inside and slams it at his back. "What monstrous hell is this?" he gasps out.

Belle shakes her head, not quite able to hide her smile. "As I tried to say, things are different here," she says. She bites diffidently at her lower lip. "Maybe you should wait in the shop with me. Rumple will be back soon and we can discuss your visit _and_ the wishes."

"R… Rumple?"

"My husband, Rumplestiltskin."

Harold swallows. His head swims, the blood rushing to his toes until he's sure that his red hair has turned a muted strawberry blonde. "I must go," he mutters.

Belle takes a single step forward, the concern showing on her face. "Harold?"

"I must go," he repeats with what he hopes sounds like good cheer. He stands, straightens his vest. "I was merely… unprepared for the tumult. I will visit your town now. I'm sure it is as beautiful as you are, Belle."

The words don't seem to satisfy her, for she's still frowning as he once again braves the outside world. But if Rumplestiltskin is here, then perhaps… perhaps some past business can be settled while he waits for the lovely Belle to decide on three blasted wishes! Finally, a chance to clear his good name once and for all.

Yes. He would certainly face hell for that.

 

II

"…and be sure to visit the convent on your way home," Rumplestiltskin says. The bell on the door jangles above his head, but he hardly notices. Nor does he give the empty shop more than a passing glance. It would be beyond the pale for one of the denizens of Storybrooke to attempt to steal from _him_ , even in the face of an unlocked door and a seemingly abandoned shop. 

"Are they behind on their rent, Mr. Gold?" Dove asks.

Rumplestiltskin tips his head back – way back – to meet Dove's eyes. "Not at all," he answers. "I just enjoy putting a little scare into the pesky gnats every now and then."

If Dove has any opinion about being assigned to randomly intimidate a group of nuns-slash-fairies, he gives no sign. That is, in fact, the thing that Rumplestiltskin admires about him the most. 

"Anything else?"

"I think that will be all," Rumplestiltskin says. "Oh, and I won't need you tomorrow. Belle and I are planning a daytime excursion. Apparently there is to be a picnic and then we will be building sand castles at the beach." When Dove's brow furrows – about the only indication the man will ever give that a plan is incomprehensible to him – Rumplestiltskin waves a hand. "She saw it in a movie."

The expression doesn't waver, but Dove nods. "Enjoy your day, Mr. Gold."

"And you, Dove," Rumplestiltskin says as the man turns to leave. The bell tinkles again and for a moment Dove's bulk blocks out the sunlight streaming through the door, and then he is left in blessed quiet. Well, perhaps not so blessed since he has just made arrangement for the harassment of nuns, but quiet nonetheless. 

It would of course be far more entertaining to pester the nuns himself, but he _has_ promised Belle that he'll try to be a better man.

He strolls toward the counter, breathing in the scent of the place. Old wood, ancient scrolls, the lingering tang of magic, the whispers of a hundred successful deals. He is smiling as he steps behind the register and reaches for the ledger beneath it, and feels the smile freeze on his lips when he sees the golden lamp perched on the edge of the nearest display case. His heart stops then stutters madly in his chest, and his lips form her name silently before he can finally call out. 

"Belle?" 

Silence. He reaches out a single finger to nudge the lamp. Warm to the touch, which can only mean one thing. The genie is indeed free. This time his heart does not race, it hardens into a thick tough core of molten fire. If the genie has harmed one hair on Belle's head…

"BELLE!"

He hears the swish of the curtain before the click of her heels. "I was in the back, Rumple, I didn't hear—"

"This lamp," he interrupts, swinging toward her, one finger still pointing toward the vexatious object on the counter. "Did you touch it?"

Her gaze drifts to the neatly polished lamp, and her smile rivals its brightness. "Oh, Rumple, I've had the most exciting day! I was doing some tidying up, and I noticed the lamp buried on that top shelf, so I—"

"Did you make a wish?" he demands. His mind is already spinning, trying to work out a way to fix it if she did. A deal. A bargain with the genie. He will make it work, no matter what it takes. No matter the cost. "Did you make a wish, Belle?"

"Rumple!" she says, and it's only then that he realizes he has wrapped his hands cruelly around her biceps; that he is squeezing her tightly. Too tightly. He blinks and steps back, smoothes his thumbs over the pale skin of her arms. A slight breath of magic and any discomfort he may have inflicted in his desperation is gone as if it never was.

"I'm sorry, Belle," he murmurs. "I would never hurt you, sweetheart, not for the world. But it's very important. Did you—"

"I did not," Belle answers. Her eyes narrow as she glances to the lamp and then back to him. "Wait a minute. Did you _know_ he was in there?"

She made no wishes. Rumplestiltskin releases his grip on her arms, clutches at the countertop as the relief washes over him. His limbs tremble, and he only stands straight when he feels Belle's hand on his arm. 

"Would it have been so very awful if I had made a wish?"

"Wishes," he says carefully, "are thorny things. No different than contracts, in their way."

"And _did_ you know the genie was in there?"

"Of course, my dear. I put him there."

"You?" She sounds so shocked, as though ensnaring a genie in a lamp is the most nefarious thing he's ever done. "But Rumple, he was trapped! That's nothing more than a jail cell!"

Ah. Yes, his sweet Belle would of course be horrified by the idea of anyone imprisoned against his will. She still awakens from the occasional nightmare in which she is locked in a cold chamber at the top of a tower, haunted by the kohl-rimmed eyes that stare in at her while she shivers and shakes. When he is holding her after one of those dreams it is all he can do not to transport himself to Regina's home and rip her heart from her chest. It is only the knowledge that Belle would be devastated to learn of it – that Belle has somehow forged a friendship of sorts with the woman who kidnapped her and tormented her for years – that stays his hand.

"It was… necessary, Belle," he says. "He was trying to kill someone."

She shakes her head. "Harold would never do that. Besides, he told me that he _can't_ do that!"

Rumplestiltskin sighs. "It's a long story, sweetheart, and one that I will be happy to share with you when time is not of the essence. Where did he go?"

Her teeth catch on her lower lip. "If I tell you," she says slowly, "will you promise to give him a chance to explain himself? This may all simply be a misunderstanding. You don't need to poof him back into his lamp immediately!"

"Belle—"

"Five minutes, Rumple. That's all I'm asking for."

Of all the women he's met in his hundreds of years of life, he would choose to fall in love with the most intractable _and_ pure-hearted of the bunch. Always eager to see the best in people, including himself. And when she looks at him like that? He gives in, just as he usually does. "Five minutes," he agrees, "and not a second more."

Belle nods. "Harold said he was going to explore the town," she tells him. "And find a cup of tea."

"We'll start at Granny's, then," Rumplestiltskin says, turning for the door. She falls into step beside him. "And hope that he hasn't had enough time to get up to any mischief."

If only mischief was all that he is worried about.

 

III

"Why didn't you just tell Gustav that we're looking for a genie?" Belle asks as the door shuts behind them at the Whispering Rock. The cafe had been packed with people, yet no one – from Gustav behind the counter working the fancy coffee machines to the patrons wedged behind tiny tables – had seen Harold. She wouldn't have thought that someone with such distinct looks could avoid so much notice.

"For the same reason I said nothing to the widow Lucas while we were at her establishment," Rumple answers. He stops next to her on the sidewalk. "Can you imagine what might happen here if people knew that a genie was on the loose, Belle? The chaos that might occur?"

Belle frowns. One person is the same as the next to her, whether genie or human, dwarf or… or dark mage, for that matter. She shakes her head. "Harold can only grant wishes to the person who freed him from the lamp," she says. "Only to me."

"Do you think that would matter to the cretins who make up this town? Most of them probably know more about _bricklaying_ than the rules of magic. They think it's just a wave of the hand and _poof!_ They've no idea of the intricacies that are required to work even the simplest of spells. The mental acuity that it takes, combined with the proper tools, understanding of the subject—"

"And rare ingredients for potions and long hard work, I know." Belle reaches out to take the hand that has lifted in what was once a common gesture for him, and draws it down to her side. "I watched you bent over your books and your vials often enough, Rumple."

The memories are in soft focus, overlaid by too many things that have happened since they'd been transported to Storybrooke. Belle can no longer recall the feel of the wood beneath her bottom as she perched on the bench, nor the titles of any of the books that she brought with her to his tower workroom and then sat beside her, abandoned, while she watched him work. But the smell of the room is still strong in her memory, the mingled scents of ancient parchment and iron pine and the sharp tanginess of magic being wrought. And she can remember Rumple best of all – the way the sunlight from the window made his skin sparkle as he leaned over a beaker, the intensity of his gaze, the brilliance of his crooked smile and his delighted giggle when the experiment turned out as he'd hoped.

Belle pushes the memory aside and twines their fingers. "Where should we try next?"

"The marina, perhaps," Rumple answers. "Although it looks as though we're about to be waylaid." 

She looks up at him to see his face twist in a grimace, and follows his gaze to David and Snow crossing the street a few feet away. Belle smiles despite her husband's misgivings. While it's true that the Charmings often come to them – well, to _him_ \-- for help, it's also true that Snow had gone out of her way to drop by the library when she was readying it for business, often pitching in to help her organize the stacks and sharing the town gossip. And she's heard rumblings that David was instrumental in helping Rumple back when she only had false memories, and though she doesn't like to think of her time as the disreputable 'Lacey' she's at least grateful that Rumple had someone by his side.

"Belle," David greets her with a smile, then a quick nod of his head to her husband. "Mr. Gold."

"What are you two doing out on this lovely spring day?" Snow asks. "David and I were just going to see the animals at the shelter. We're thinking of adopting a puppy!"

"What," Rumple snaps, "no catastrophe? No rampaging ice monster or rioting giant that you require my help to vanquish?" 

"Rumple!" Belle scolds. She flashes her friends an apologetic smile. "Actually, we're looking for someone," she says carefully, mindful of Rumple's instructions. "He's tall, red-haired, rather… awkward looking—"

"The genie?" David asks. "Yeah, we saw him."

Belle blinks. "You… you knew he was a genie?"

"The outfit made it rather obvious," Snow says. "Though I've never seen one so…"

"Irritable?" David offers.

"I was going to say 'pasty'," Snow says with a light-hearted slap at his arm. 

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you've known dozens of genies in your long and storied life," Rumple says. "Where did he go?"

"Speaking of irritable," David mutters.

Belle meets Snow's eyes. _Husbands_ , she says with a glance. Snow snickers, then covers her mouth with one pale hand when David lifts an enquiring brow in her direction. "He was looking for Regina," Snow says. "I know the mayor's office is closed by now, so I directed him to her house."

"Regina?" Belle repeats with a frown. "But he said he was going to get a cup of tea."

"It appears the genie has lied to you, Belle," Rumple says. "No surprise, you have a trusting nature. We'll simply have to attempt to head him off at the pass." 

Belle nods, even though Rumple makes it sound as if her 'trusting nature' is a bad thing rather than a good one. "If we cut across the common, we can be at Regina's in less than five minutes."

"No need," Rumple says. 

The hand not held in hers raises in a flourish, and Belle barely has time to blink before the purple smoke of his magic has engulfed them both. When she opens her eyes the cool air and nearly empty street outside the Rock has been replaced by a richly decorated parlour… and one extremely irate mayor-cum-queen with a fireball curled in her fist confronting a strangely unaffected genie. 

"Back off, genie," Regina hisses.

"Ah," Rumple says dryly from beside her. "I see that we're just in time."

 

IV

"Now then," Rumplestiltskin says. A thought and a word whispered in his mind has the lamp appearing in his hand. He points at it with one long finger, feels the sizzle of the spell that will do the deed. "Back in your lamp, genie."

"Rumple! You promised!"

Rumplestiltskin sighs. He did so promise, and while a promise is not exactly a deal it is near enough that his skin prickles at the thought of going back on his word. And then there is the look on Belle's face, so confused and hurt at the idea that he would not live up to a promise freely given. "Indeed," he relents. He calls the magic back, spares a look for Regina. "Put up your fireball, dearie. It appears that the genie must be given a chance to explain himself."

Regina's eyes narrow. "I don't trust him."

"Please, Regina," Belle says. She steps up beside him, turns those imploring eyes to the woman who once held her captive, and asks for mercy from one who once never gave an inch of it. Rumplestiltskin is reminded again of just quite how astounding the woman he married truly is. "Let him speak. I'm sure we can figure this out without—"

"Without me turning him into genie fricassee?"

"That thing couldn't hurt me, anyway," the genie says haughtily.

His wife's eyes dart warningly to the genie. "You're not helping, Harold," she says.

"Regina," Rumplestiltskin says. 

Her eyes flick to his, and her red lips purse before she inclines her head. "Fine," she snaps out. The fireball disappears, and he feels the bowstring tension go out of Belle when she releases a slow breath.

"Now then," Rumplestiltskin says, turning to face the cause of all this disturbance on what should've been a leisurely mid-week evening. "I've promised my wife that I would give you five minutes to explain yourself, genie."

"His _name_ is Harold," Belle says.

" _Harold_ , then," Rumplestiltskin bites out. He lifts a hand expansively. "You have the floor. _Harold_."

At first he thinks the genie won't respond, but then Harold straightens his shoulders. "It's all her fault!" he says, stabbing a finger at Regina. "If she hadn't been so evil—"

"Oh, as if a genie is a paragon of virtue," Regina snaps back.

Belle lifts a hand. "Just tell me," she says.

"It was a wish," Harold says. "One of _her_ subjects found my lamp. And all he wanted after I provided him with shelter and food for his family was the death of the person who'd caused him to lose everything to begin with. He wanted the Evil Queen dead. He wished for me to find a way for the Queen to end her own life." Harold fixes him with a malevolent gaze. "Before I could do it, Rumplestiltskin appeared. He did something… trapped me in my lamp. And there I have been ever since."

"He couldn't have killed me," Regina says with a scowl. "It's not allowed in his _contract_."

"No, he couldn't kill you outright," Rumplestiltskin says. "Only set you up where you could not call your magic to hand and then torture you for all eternity until you finally decided to end it yourself. Face it, dearie, I saved your life."

"Yes, so I could cast your miserable curse!"

Rumplestiltskin lifts a shoulder. "The reason is irrelevant. I saved your life then, just as I'm saving it now."

"But Harold," Belle says at his shoulder. "You… you wouldn't have gone through with it!"

The genie's shoulders slump. "It's a genie's solemn duty to fulfill each wish, Belle," he says. "To fail to do so? It's brought shame upon my house! My father disowned me! My cousin Marvin won't even tell the other genies he's related to me anymore. And when I became a genie I made a vow that each wish _must_ be satisfied! I cannot break it."

"So you see, Belle," Rumplestiltskin says, "the genie will continue to attempt to achieve his objective; namely, the imprisonment and torture of Regina until she is compelled to take her own life to end her suffering. Ironically, the same fate that she once convinced me had happened to you. Surely you appreciate that I must return him to his lamp at once."

He holds the lamp aloft and again raises his hand to call upon the spell that will trap the genie, this time with the added caveat that he remain inside despite any future polishing of the vessel. But he is stayed by one simple word.

"No," Belle says.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Regina says. "Let the man send him back to that brass shack where he belongs! Not that my magic isn't enough to curtail one pathetic genie, but—"

"I understand," Belle interrupts – and only his sweet wife would turn her back completely on an annoyed sorceress, never mind cut her off mid-rant – "how important it is to keep your word," she says to the genie. "I understand how important promises are. I made one too, long ago, when I swore to go with Rumple in order to save my kingdom from the ogres. But I also know," she says firmly, "that vows made do _not_ have to contradict who you are as a person. That it is still possible to fulfil our duty without hurting someone else."

Harold shakes his head sadly. "This wish implicitly said—"

"That the Evil Queen should take her own life," Belle finishes. She turns to look at Regina, and Rumplestiltskin sees that her eyes are shining. "Well, look at her! Regina has done some terrible things, but now? Now she works _with_ the heroes to help people. She was one of the people who saved Rumple's grandson from death at the hands of Peter Pan. She was willing to sacrifice her own life to save this town. With the savior's help, she defeated a creature of darkness called the Chernabog that would have killed countless people. Look at her, Harold," Belle says again. "The Evil Queen _is_ dead, and it was Regina herself who killed her."

Rumplestiltskin straightens, his own eyes shining now as he looks at his wife.

His sweet, beautiful, _clever_ wife.

Belle turns her attention back to the genie and takes his hand. "You can _choose_ to do good, Harold. You can choose to disregard wishes that are malicious or evil or cruel. Going forward, you can choose to be a good genie who does only good works." 

Rumplestiltskin presses his lips together. One man's good deed is another man's folly, after all, and he has several centuries of experience in knowing that people rarely think about the consequences of their actions when they're making a deal. Or a wish. And that which may seem to be 'good' often has far reaching consequences indeed.

But he holds his tongue. Belle's counsel is usually sound, if somewhat naïve. In this case, he chooses to hope for the best.

"I can," Harold says, looking at Belle wonderingly. Rumplestiltskin recognizes the look as one he knows his own face often holds when looking upon his wife. "The wish that haunted me _has_ been fulfilled. And… I can be a _good_ genie."

"Yes," Belle says with a laugh.

The genie's eyes flick toward him warily, though he directs his question to Belle. "And Rumplestiltskin won't force me back into my lamp?"

Rumplestiltskin clears his throat. "There _is_ still the matter of Belle's three wishes," he says.

"Oh," Belle says quickly, "I already said. I don't want any wishes."

"Nevertheless, you must make them. I won't have that hanging over your head, Belle. An errant wish dangling in the air is a dangerous thing."

"Gold's right," Regina puts in. "Two weeks from now you'll be clumsily dropping books in that library of yours and wish that you had three hands and then? _Poof_!"

Belle shudders at the mental image. "I suppose I could wish for some new books for the library," she muses.

"No," Rumplestiltskin says. From the corner of his eye he sees Regina shaking her head. Only a true practitioner of magic knows how treacherous the simplest wish can be. "You will wish for two roses, one at a time, using very precise perimeters, and then you will wish for them to be returned to their point of origin with no trace of them left behind here. No scent, no leaf, no flower, no barb. There is to be no indication now or in the future that they were ever here at all."

"I wouldn't deceive her!" Harold protests. "No tricks, I promise!"

"Is all of that really necessary, Rumple?"

"I'll guide you through it, and you'll be fine," he says, nodding toward her to proceed. "Go on."

He nevertheless holds himself still while Belle meticulously repeats his instructions, only relaxing his shoulders when the two roses have disappeared from the table. He meets Regina's eyes across the room, returns her careful nod. Everything appears to have gone smoothly, but with wishes? One never knows. At any rate, he'll set Regina to watching for any strange happenings in the next few months. She owes Belle that much. 

"And now?" the genie says nervously into the silence.

Rumplestiltskin rouses himself. It would be amusing indeed – and prudent, should any of Belle's wishes go awry – to put a little fright into the fellow, but his wife is watching him carefully. "Now? You are free to go."

Harold glances between the three of them, finally settling on Rumplestiltskin himself. "Anywhere?"

"I shouldn't think you would be hampered by the restrictions the Storybrooke residents have on leaving this place, so yes," Rumplestiltskin answers. "Anywhere you like."

"The first thing I'm going to do is find Marvin!" the genie exclaims. "Finally I have some tales that rival his own. Let me tell you, a genie can pick up a LOT of gossip while lounging in a lamp for thirty-some years!" He turns to Belle and takes her hands, though Rumplestiltskin keeps a wary eye on him to ensure they don't roam. His wife is a beautiful woman, after all. "Thank you, Belle, for freeing me! Thank you for everything."

"Harold," Belle says with a smile, "you are so welcome."

"Well, I'm off. If you ever need me for anything, anything at all, you can contact me through the Genie Network. If you have a fairy in residence, she'll know how it works." He squeezes Belle's hand and prances toward the door, opening it with a flourish. "And I'm finally going to get that cup of tea!"

"Speaking of leaving," Regina hints when the door has shut behind him. 

"Yes, yes," Rumplestiltskin says. "And that little bit about my wife saving your life just now? You're welcome."

He wraps his arm around Belle's waist and pulls his magic around him before Regina can do more than open her mouth – presumably to protest that saving her from a determined genie not once but twice was somehow his fault – and transports them back to the house. A quick glance at the clock tells him that the whole adventure took less than two hours, though it feels much longer. It may be possible that even an erstwhile immortal being can get too old to traipse all over town saving semi-reformed Evil Queens.

But never too old for his young and delightful wife. Rumplestiltskin squeezes Belle's waist, and waits until she tips her head to meet his eyes.

"Clever girl," he says admiringly. "How did it come to you? That Regina's 'redemption', such as it is, would fulfil the criteria of the unfulfilled wish?" 

Belle lifts a shoulder. "There's often a loophole, if you look hard enough."

"Hmm," Rumplestiltskin says. "And was there a loophole in your deal to come with me to the Dark Castle?"

"I'm sure there must have been," Belle answers, "but after the first few weeks when you stopped trying to scare me all the time I began to enjoy my time there. I never thought to look for a loophole!"

He nods, only reluctantly releasing her when she pushes gently on his chest. 

"Now I have a question for you, Rumple. You've wanted Regina dead ever since you found out she held me prisoner," she says musingly. She cocks her head. "Why were you so eager to get to her and save her today?"

Rumplestiltskin hesitates. It was for Belle, of course. Seeing Regina eternally punished for her crime in hurting his wife would do nothing less than make his soul sing. But Belle would realize that she had set in place this turn of events. She would understand that her impromptu cleaning spree on the highest shelf of the shop where he had stowed the lamp had then resulted in the death of a woman she strangely calls a friend. She would be horrified, and he could not live with that. 

"Because I knew you would wish it," Rumplestiltskin says. His lips quirk at his choice of words. "I told you, Belle. I'm trying to be a better man."


End file.
